This Jesus Must Die
by BlueLilac
Summary: I see blood and destruction, Our elimination because of one man. Blood and destruction because of one man. -Jesus Christ Superstar He stretched out his hand and insisted. "Candy or kryptonite. That's your choice." Clark Kent/Lex Luthor The Story happened after the dinner party in the movie. Translated work of 这耶稣必须死 on AO3 by momoworldmorose
1. Chapter 1

"You asked for me?" The reporter said, pushing up his glasses, unsettled. He has been forced to cramp in his cube all morning to work on that _Exclusive Spotlight_ piece about last night's evening party. He was bored enough to use his super-hearing for some entertainment and has heard every word of White's phone call through a glass door fifty feet away.

"Yes, haven't we hit the jackpot. That kid specifically asked for the Daily Planet." Mr. White scribbled down notes on his pad at an astonishing speed, cramming the phone between his head and shoulder.

The editor-in-chief put down the receiver and laid back in his chair, clattering the ball pen in his hand. His rolled-up white sleeve had a coffee stain on it. That brown vest he has worn for a week was covered with unfriendly white scraps from the printing unit.

He spoke out of nowhere, "Listen, I've decided to send you." He didn't give the reporter a chance to refuse and was inspecting that complicated expression on Clark Kent's face with interest. "What on earth did you talk about at the party, that he has such an impression on Daily Planet?"

The reported stayed silent. They didn't actually talk about anything. In fact he hasn't even had a word with the young entrepreneur. If there has to an impression of some sort, it was how that handsome young genius popped out of thin air, interrupted his conversation with Bruce Wayne, grabbed his hand before he could react, threw out a punch line that could be either serious or just a joke, then patted his chest in a casual but intimate way. And he, under this sudden "attack", "hardened" all over and nearly blew his cover. [1]

After that he felt the young man's gaze following him around like a fly after a piece of frosted cake, which made him left in a hurry as if escaping something. That resulted in his lack of ideas this morning as if his pen has dried out. No, letting him to meet Lex Luthor right then, twice within such a short period of time was not exactly a great idea.

Mr. White waved his hand a bit, indicating that there's no need to focus on details. "I know you're wrecking your brain on what to write, having another go with that guy will give you some inspiration for sure." That was just an excuse. His head was in the clouds that the paper's sales might go through the roof. That cloud was quite grounded, though. As long as it's about Lex Luthor, even if Clark Kent only came up with a piece of rat crap, whatever it was printed on would skyrocket off the planet.

"I've came up with several usable titles." White made an exaggerated gesture. " _Lex: Reformer of the human world,_ question mark; _Latest tech of LexCorp, may become mystery munition of mankind_ ; _To whom should security safeguard of human fall? LexCorp proclaim to change the world_."

He suddenly changed the subject. "And if we could scoop up some news about Superman, we can do a comparative exclusive—"

"When will the interview be?" The reporter cut him short. He looked even more uncomfortable than a moment before.


	2. Chapter 2

He crawled forward in an underground tunnel full of uneven pits and bumps. The tunnel was dug by men. The supporting was poor and there's a risk of a cave-in any minute. It seemed as if those men were trying to race with time, as every inch of the backing was soaked with desperation and rage. Though the air was clammy, steaming sweat ran down from his forehead; his reddish gold hair clung to his face, wet with perspiration, which smelt sour and revolting.

"Hurry." Mr. White Rabbit called for him ahead, "or it shall be too late." [1]

Mr. Rabbit was wearing a red waistcoat, which stirred up a string of annoyance inside him.

After half an hour of struggle, he finally reached the trapdoor on the other side of the wall. The exit was placed in the basement of some grocery store in West Germany two blocks away from the Berlin Wall. The smell of clean air urged him to flip open the panel and climb out. But there was no basement. He was standing right in the middle of the death-strip, ahead of him the concrete guard road stretched into the horizon. Stiffly, he turned to the trapdoor, but the way whence he came was nowhere to be found.

Clank. The searchlight shone onto his face. And then he saw father, standing on the watchtower, gun in hand. Instantly, fear robbed him of his breath.

"Dad!" He cried, staggering down in the sand, unsure whether to run towards the tower or fled. Should he keep on begging for the old man's mercy? Or should he flee from his side?

"Dad!" He couldn't see his face. The light was near blinding, so he raised his filthy hands to cover his eyes. Through his fingers he could see father raising the gun.

"No! Don't shoot me I'm leaving right now!" He stumbled onto the patrol walk. The sand sticking to the soles of his white sneakers made him slip a few steps.

Traitor.

"Dad! Don't shoot!" He wailed, a sharp stab of pain pierced through his heart. But the voice was muffled as if he was trapped in a swamp. "Please! Don't!"

He heard the breaking sound of a bullet tearing through the air, then all of a sudden, he was standing on the red tracks of the Olympics. The audience emitted wave after wave of shouts, raising their arms in salute. It was a scene equivalent to the sweeping waves of a tsunami, unstoppable.

"Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler!"

He was at father's gunpoint.

The Nazi dictator was long dead. He knew that as clear as the daylight.

Traitor.

Red flags stood solemnly in the wind. No, that's not the banner of the Nazis'. It was the black, red, and yellow of GDR, and that was practically the same thing. The unrepentant red was choking him. They were just the same deceitful men putting up another window-dressing. As dictators came and went, his rights were robbed all the same, like a roasted chicken stripped to the bones. The carnivores reassembled the scattered bones and demanded the skeleton that no one could ever recognise, "Now move! Do as I say!"

Move! He surged forward, trying to race the bullet.

"Dad! Stop! Make it stop!"

"Dad! Dad!" He howled as tears and mucus streamed down his face.

But he could not outrun the bullet, and there was no one there to save him. Twenty years later, a red cape seared through the clear sky of Metropolis like a second coming of that flag. That cracking sound of air bore an uncanny resemblance to the bullet that won't stop pursuing him in the dream.

Clark Kent sat on the bench in LexCorp Hi-Tech Park's reception area. The afternoon sun in Metropolis shone through the huge, neatly-scrubbed curtain wall, dragging long shadows onto the floor. The special correspondent of Daily Planet had arrived ten minutes early, but the young heir of LexCorp took his time and only showed up twenty minutes after that.

"Mr. Kent." The successor nodded. Considering his attitude from the other night at the party, this kind of greeting seemed somewhat distant. Lex Luthor was of a slender built, more than a head shorter than Kent. He was wearing a royal blue casual blazer, slipped over a pink and grey spotted shirt.

Kent stood up hurriedly and stretched out his hand. However, his eager gesture was completely ignored. The unexpected turndown left the reporter fairly baffled. Luthor stood five feet away, hands on his hips. His eyes were slightly puffed up, as if he was just crying earlier. In order to cover that up, his expression was nearly stone-cold.

Kent had no idea how he had offended this pampered young man. He quickly looked down to check his apparel. Had someone stuck a "LecCorp Stinks" post-it note on him when he wasn't noticing? The reporter couldn't be more embarrassed. If Lex Luthor declared that the interview was cancelled right that instant, he could do nothing but leave, dejected and without anything to say.

"Sorry, I dozed off." The young man spoke suddenly.

"Bad dream?" The reporter quickly followed, making an effort to ease the tension.

However, Luthor's expression was like being slapped in the face without warning. Lex Luthor blinked a few times and folded his blonde hair behind his ear. Then he abruptly resumed his charming and mannered ways. He raised his chin, smiled gently, and turned around, signalling the reporter to follow.

"Tell me, what does Clark Kent from Kansas want to know?"

"That depends on what Lex Luthor from Metropolis would like to tell me?" Kent breathed a sigh of relief, and took out a black-covered notebook and a fountain pen from his pocket.

"You're not still taking notes with pen and paper, are you?" The successor tilted his head, taunting relentlessly. "Good lord, are you Captain America who's just woken up inside an ice cube?"

Kent clearly didn't get the joke. Apparently, his life has been too busy to allow him spare time for comics. He hastened a question to avoid further awkwardness.

"So, did LexCorp discover an unexampled element? There has been rumor that you've picked up a new meteorite recently."

Luthor stopped and turned around, which made Kent nearly ran into him. The young man frowned, his tone condescending all of a sudden.

"Mr. Kent, no question is allowed in today's interview. You can simply write down what I say."

"I thought this interview was about the new technology…" Kent flushed, half annoyed, half embarrassed. All right, there goes White's plan.

The young man stood on tiptoe, as if measuring Kent's height. "Maybe. If you get me hot." The grin on his face was close to villainous. "Please me, big boy!"

They walked towards the central R&D, passing through the employee recreation area and executive offices. The employee recreation area consisted of modern cafeterias, four basketball courts, and a cinema. Luthor talked about his new staff welfare plan, as there would be a 20% off for all LexCorp tech products. Plus, he was going to build more apartment buildings, turning the Hi-Tech Park into a city within the city. He rattled away, talking non-stop, which made the journalist's task of taking notes even harder. He felt more like a court stenographer than a secretary, for the interview hasn't proceeded as expected.

Lex Luthor's choice of words were infused with copious quotes from the classics, which Kent was completely oblivious to. He could only write them all down word by word without knowing what they meant, thinking perhaps he would consult with Lois after he got back. "Incompetent" as he was, after fifteen minutes he couldn't help noticing the successor's leaps of thoughts. For example, while the young man was introducing some high-tech product, he would suddenly ask out of nowhere, "Do you read, Clark?"

Then without waiting for an answer, Luthor continued as if he'd already known what Kent would say at heart, "I read a lot. There's not really anything else to do because when I was young…" And then he stopped, resuming the introduction on the product, as if he hadn't even noticed his own change of subject.

Or, "Was your father happy about you coming into the world? "

The journalist nodded. His thoughts dwelled on both fathers for a bit, and realized that he had nothing to complain about. Thus that conversation ended. Luthor turned his head, and for some time he just stared at the sunlight outside, frowning, completely forgot the fact that he had a journalist to receive.

But as he hit an exciting subject, he would bounce up and down like a child. The sullen expression on his face when they first met was gone. For a while, he looked like one of those perfect young man that only existed on television or web fictions, devilishly handsome with abundant wealth. Spreading wild on the internet, his magazine photoshoots and paparazzi videos were a real turn-on for young girls and his follow admirers.

Clark Kent nearly believed that the humiliation earlier was simply a result of his own overthinking. Lex Luthor was a smart guy, smart enough to seem unapproachable, unmatched for those of the same generation. That made him sound largely self-obsessive with just a hint of humility. He called that recreation area a motivation stop, where giant rock-climbing walls overlooked basketball courts.

"Basketball, Clark?" The young man invited.

The reporter refused. He was here for the interview. If he slam dunk over the millionaire's head in front of his employees, the Daily Planet would very probably never get a chance to interview LexCorp again. Luthor seemed slightly disappointed, but they still sat by the restaurant bar and had fresh-squeezed carrot, cucumber, and cranberry juice, while enjoying a match between two teams of employees for ten minutes or so.

"Going up without touching the ground." The young genius said thoughtfully, his voice a little indistinctive with the straw between his lips. "You need to be like a bat."

Kent was wondering whether it was a common metaphor or some kind of hidden figurative speech, when Luthor suddenly turned to him.

"Do you like bats, Clark?"

That took the reporter by surprise.

"'I will not join the rat race because I'm not a rat. And I will not blindly follow a specific faith because I'm not a bat. The only race I'll take part in is for humans being humane. It's called the human race, and sadly it's got the least participants' " Luthor quoted fluently.

Kent kept his head down, his pen dragging across the paper, but the words failed to come out. He pushed up his glasses hastily and tried again. The pen point rolled across the notebook, leaving behind blank scratches. He couldn't believe it. The ink has already run out.

"Rise up and Salute the Sun by Suzy Kassem." The young entrepreneur said coldly. He snatched the pen out of Kent's hand. "You can stop writing. This has nothing to do with today's interview."

He jumped off the chair, and stuffed the pen in his trouser pockets. Kent was about to say something, but Luthor cut him short, scratching his red-golden hair.

"Come with me for a tablet with electronic pen. Consider it a gift."

If this Clark Kent in his human disguise was more discreet, not so easy-going as such, or simply not a stranger to the word "no", he would never have accepted Lex Luthor's generous offer. But Clark Kent was just a low-key, ordinary reporter that nobody would give a second look. He wore the most common plaid shirts from the department store, kept his eyes down at all times, as if meeting others' gaze for long could cause him to combust. He has yet again established the faith to live among humans in this Land of Tomorrow. He was like a child transformed into the body of a grown man, carefully treading, scared of blowing his cover for some misbehavior.

Lex Luthor knew that extremely well, and he was leeching onto that frail wound. He has grown used to the procedure of being courteous before forceful, which was very much like his father, who mastered the skill of carrot and stick to its perfection.

During their conversation, Clark could not overlook the fact that the word "father" kept coming up. It was like a note of error under Lex Luthor's fingertips, appearing suddenly and then hastily covered up with vagueness.

It wasn't that the young man actually said anything about his father. It was quite the opposite, he's said nothing. Luthor Senior and Junior rarely mentioned the days before their immigration to America. Those stories were a gold mine that no one has the permission to exploit yet. Whose family hasn't got a few skeletons in their closet? Not to mention what high position the Luthors were in. There were all kinds of rumors. The cause of Luthor Senior's unexpected death was never made public, and his successor seemed to deem that pushing LexCorp towards a higher peak of power was more crucial than using the time and resources to investigate his father's accident. As time went on, critics for the young entrepreneur's cold-blood and indifference was replaced by overwhelming praise. Indeed, if a man was polite, charming, and always with a smile on his face in public, not to mention that he is the third charitable donor in North America, how could you accuse him of being ruthless?

When White texted him, the special correspondent from Daily Planet was just entering his phone number into the new tablet, under Luthor's guidance.

It was already way past appointed time period for the interview, but this arbitrary young man didn't have the slightest intention of calling it a day. He was leaning over the counter, pouting with his chin in his hands and studying Kent's expression. Kent patiently tried all the functions of the tablet, thin as paper but three times faster than the average laptop. Naturally, this tablet can send and receive texts as easy as chatting. That technology was from five years ago, how could you not know about it?

A pop-up windowed appeared on the tablet with a ding.

 _How is the secret weapon tour going? –White_

"Secret weapon, huh?" The young man straightened up, reading the text unsparingly.

The reporter couldn't be more embarrassed. He hastily explained that he didn't mean to pry for business confidential.

"So you want to know about the new technology I mentioned on Fortune Magazine? Is that the theme you want for this interview?"

"If, if you're willing to spare some…" Kent didn't know whether he should be honest or not. Would a human in this position speak the truth? If he could obtain some intell on this new tech, White would be floating from sheer happiness. But Luthor's expression was hard to read.

"What's your favorite color, Clark?" The young entrepreneur asked out of nowhere, knocking on the counter.

"What?"

"What's your favorite color?"

Kent swallowed. God! He needed an answer to please Luthor. A smart and quirky reply that could make Luthor happily show him the new technology! Considering it from Clark Kent's position, if sleeping with Lex Luthor could get him some Pulitzer-worthy new material, White might frown a bit , but probably wouldn't openly object.

His eyes fell on Luthor's shirt with pink polka dots. "Pink, pink is fine." He blurted out.

Luthor let out a burst of sharp laughter. Kent flushed.

"You, you see, Mr. Kent, I, I collect meteors!" Luthor, wiping away tears with the back of his hand, was laughing so hard that his words were broken.

"That's quite an expensive hobby." The reporter resumed a serious face and picked up the tablet. "Shall we?"

Five minutes later, through two security checks and two disinfection chambers, Kent was in the depth of the central R&D. Lex Luthor waltzed forward, leading the journalist to that shiny green gem.

The real show of this afternoon slowly drew back the curtains, and Lex Luthor was all dressed up, sitting in the front row. He would always sit really close to the stage, close enough to see every actor and actress's makeup and expression, and even the drops of sweat on their foreheads. Now his self-directed show featuring himself and this handsome reporter was about to open, and he didn't mind adding a few harmless skits in it just to enhance the taste.

"Salvaged out of the epicontinental sea of Indian Ocean, wrapped in the broken wreckages of the Kryptonian ship." Luthor waved his hand to dismiss the laboratory workers. His eyes, glistening with wickedness, hasn't left Kent's face since stepping into the lab. Now he was standing right beside the crystal emitting an eerie green radiance, as if he had been waiting for that moment for a long time.

"Pretty, isn't it? And is that what you'd expected the new technology would be?" He span around with his hands in his pants' pockets. "Ah, I haven't told you what its exact function is! Oops, I just said Krypton, so you should've guessed it already? Why don't you take a closer look?"

The reporter stood by the door as if roots had sprang out from his feet and nailed him to the ground. After Luthor had opened the lab door with a dramatic, showy move, he hasn't take a single step forward.

"Come forward, Clark Kent from Kansas." The entrepreneur was wearing a broad grin. "No need to worry if it's harmful for humans. See this clear container?" He knocked on the surface of something, glass or plastic or neither. "Radiation-proof, everything-proof. You couldn't be safer at the moment."

That is quite sarcastic, Kent thought, clenching his fists involuntarily. There was dead silence in the lab, interrupted only by the tick-tock of recorders and the humming of electronic instruments. Luthor stared at him with a smile on his face, until Kent gave up his standing-still and walked to his side.

"Good boy!" Luthor said contemptuously, reaching out to pinch Kent's arm. This was a ridiculous scene: he sticking next to Kent was like a rabbit standing next to a polar bear. "Do you know what that Superman is most scared of?"

The reporter didn't reply. He was staring at that crystal as large as three or maybe four human heads. Its emerald light shone on his face. His hands, which held on to the tablet trembled.

Luthor noticed that. And it made him grin.

"I mean that flying alien, whoosh, hey! Flying around, in a red cape!"

The reporter stayed silence, still looking down. He had this grave expression on his face. After a while, he shook his head.

"It's this green rock!" The young man declared, his face all brightened up. "My dear friend, you want to write a big story, don't you? Well, write this!" He demanded, "Write this! The little green stone that would leave Superman panic-stricken! That renowned protector of Metropolis, a god worshipped by all…" He stopped suddenly as if he had bitten his tongue. "would wither under the power of this stone. Even if one bullet made of Kryptonite was shot in his body, he would suffer a pain so unbearable that he would rather die. And this secret weapon is in the LexCorp's hands. Is that what you want to write? I bet Daily Planet's printers would break down from the rocketing sales!"

The reporter looked away, pushing up his glasses. "Aren't you," he cleared his throat, and continued softly, "Aren't you afraid that if I write this piece, Superman would come to take this stone away?"

"Ha!" Luthor laughed coldly. He slapped the table, and the slight shake of the green crystal made Kent shiver. "Would he? He can feel the pressing power of the Kryptonite. Every step near it would make him weaker. Would he have the courage to break this glass and pick it up? Or would he die the moment he touches it? Or would he simply use his heat-vision to wipe out LexCorp Hi-Tech Park, reducing everything to dust like a bandit? Ah, we both know the Kryptonite isn't going anywhere! Or would he fix this earth like a tyrant, only because humans own the only weapon against him? Would he? Or perhaps he would do nothing…"

Theirs eyes met, and Luther realized that he's forgotten what he was about to say. Behind that pair of black-framed glasses, the man's eyes were as if made of blue magnet. The reporter stayed quiet. This time he didn't flinch. Instead he stared back at Luthor expressionlessly, and Luthor couldn't read what's in his eyes. He was immediately annoyed at his ignorance for not being able to read him. Unrest rose up inside him, making him grabbing on to the edge of the table subconsciously.

Has he made the man angry? Did he cross the line?

Dimly he could hear the crack of the whip, his drunken father roaring at him in the middle of the night. He hit the door and bounced back onto the ground, his knees bruised. But that was no match for the lashes on his body. The memory brought back the hatred in his heart.

"Or perhaps he would comply." Lex Luthor raised his chin, the green light of the Kryptonite danced in his irises.

Kent tightened his lips, as if scared of spilling some secret. For a moment it seemed he was on the edge of a breakout, but he controlled himself right away, resuming his mild, mannered looks.

"Who knows, right?" Lex Luthor smiled knowingly. He turned and fished out two Lifesavers from next table's drawers. Then, looking down, he swiftly peeled the wrapper off one, looked up, and raised his hand. That prompting posture was quite resembling to the serpent crawling on the tree in Eden seducing Eve.

"Open up." The young entrepreneur's tone was demanding. Kent's shaking of head displeased him. The Daily Planet reporter's expression was tamed, nearly humble.

"I, I don't eat candy." He replied quietly. Those eyes were as blue as the Caribbean Sea. He held the tablet in one hand, the other awkwardly fidgeting the straps of the permit on his chest.

Luthor blinked several times.

"But thank you." Kent added in haste like he was afraid to anger the young man. It's hard to imagine a being with that level of godly power would wear a harmless mask all the time, happily willing to blend in the crowd. What a joke! But even Zeus have concealed his might and reincarnated as a bull to court? The young entrepreneur nearly laughed out loud.

"Afraid to make my hands dirty?"

Kent didn't get the other layer in the words. Instead, he widened his eyes in confusion. Luthor grinned. The corner of his mouth couldn't help twitching up, showing a triumphant smile. He nearly trembled from excitement again. Let's see how his little experiment would turn out!

Did Clark Kent from Kansas know that he knew his little secret? Luthor took another step forward, nearly touching Kent's chest, almost close enough to hear that thumping heartbeat and feel the vigorous vitality under his clothes. There's no doubt that he'd long invaded the agreed-upon personal space, which he was not used to at all. But at the moment, as if possessed, he couldn't bother to care.

"I'm not…" Kent was still refusing, still dutifully playing the human role as a reporter of Daily Planet.

But Lex Luthor's hand was still lingering there, He suggested intimately, "Candy or Kryptonite? Your choice."

The words were like a magic remedy, curing Clark Kent's hunch in an instant. The reporter gazed at him. There were monstrous waves in his blue eyes. The young entrepreneur's smile froze on his face. His outstretched hand trembled involuntarily, and for a few seconds he nearly doubted the necessity of this provocation. Luckily, the reporter lowered his eyes first, revealing an awkward, timid expression so human-like, and stretched out his neck and took the candy in his mouth.

Luthor's finger shrank back the moment it touched the man's wet tongue, as if burned by flames.

The red cherry candy fell onto the tongue.

The young entrepreneur's face was a mixture of joy and fear. He quickly unwrapped one for himself to smooth it over. It seemed that he regained his courage soon enough. He tutted while putting it in his mouth, and then licked the two fingers which had held the candy.

"There's a first time for everything. The euphemism for that is popping a cherry." Luthor sucked on the candy, pulling up a lewd yet playful smile. "How does it taste, Mr. Kent?"

After losing one game after another, the mild expression on Daily Planet's special correspondent was nearly disappearing. But he managed to strike back, "I, I prefer lemon."

"Do you want the one in my mouth? This one's lemon." The young CEO said considerately. He was harvesting his fruit of victory without mercy.

"Cherry is fine." The reporter replied cautiously.

"I bet it tastes better than Kryptonite!" Luthor clapped his hands and beamed. "Now! Let's go play basketball! Let's have a thorough 'fight'!"

He stretched out his hand towards Kent, "If I shake your hand right now, would you suddenly 'harden up' again?" The young man stared at him and teased.

[1] Alice's Adventures in Wonderland


	3. Chapter 3

There was a sweet smell of red paint in the air. Sparkling Wine in radiant champagne bubbled with a fizzing sound. He was playing poker with the Queen of Hearts in the back garden. The Queen was tall and strapping in a puffy black gown with scarlet hearts on the bodice. She wore a red cape with a delicate little gold crown pinned to her black hair. Her eyes were as clear and blue as the sky. Framed by all the laced hems, it seemed as if she was floating mid-air.

The twilight sun was setting in the west, but its heat hasn't lessened, which left him almost entirely shrouded in the Queen's shadow. He was wearing a deep-blue velvet waistcoat embroidered with golden threads, matching shorts, white stockings, and a pair of black elk leather shoes decorated with golden star buckles. His thin legs was dangling restlessly from the high chair.

The hedgehog was dealing. The pink flamingo stood beside them, its stretched neck staying still, carefully keeping the icy drinks on its head from spilling. His knuckles were knocking on the table absent-mindedly, which made the Queen glare at him in annoyance. To be frank, the Queen's skills were quite poor. He won over all the chips in no time. He was delighted, perhaps too delighted. Not only did he finish the iced drink in the glass in one gulp, but did a little tap dance with his hands on his hips. The Queen was furious. She suddenly stood up, her eyes emitting rays of red light. Wherever the light touched, neatly cropped trees were cut in half.

"Off with his head!" She ordered.

The flamingo swung its head. Glasses fell onto the ground with a clatter. The hedgehog put down the cards in its hands and shot towards him like a ball. Terrified, he was paralyzed in the chair. The heat wave struck his face, hard, and at that crucial moment the only thing he could perceive was a field of red and white light. In the thunder of the explosion, the garden crumbled.

"Off with his head!"

He screamed hoarsely and clutched onto his neck. Then all of a sudden, he found himself lying on a very familiar couch, facing that familiar white wall.

It was creepily silent all around. He lied back on the couch, feeling light like a feather. The window was right behind him, but there was no sound coming from the streets. Memories slowly slipped back to his body and completed the senses – the couch was pressing harshly against his back. It was bumpy to the touch with who knows how many broken springs inside. There were also uncleaned stains from spilled food.

This was his home in East Germany. He tried to get up, but his body wasn't responding. So he strained to turn his head to look at the clock on the wall.

It was half past five. He started panicking. He had to get up. He shouldn't lie there on the couch.

He turned back to stare at that white wall. "Why won't you help me!" He tried to move his body, but a stabbing pain in his stomach pulled him back on the couch, panting in desperation.

"Help me!" He begged the wall.

A while later, there were footsteps and the rustling of plastic bags coming from the stairwell. He tensed up in alert, and only relaxed when the door downstairs was opened and closed.

It wasn't him.

He eased up a little bit, shifting his glare back at that wall. "Talk to me." He patted his head. The wall stayed silent still. "You saw the Queen… I just saw the Queen of Hearts." He struggled to remember, "I was, I was just… I saw a hedgehog. Bah! I'll think about it later." He muttered to himself. "All right, will you help me next time?"

He used all his strength to roll onto the ground, and it nearly made him pass out from the pain. What'd just happened to his legs? Was he beaten again? When he finally straightened out his breath and started crawling towards his usual corner, he heard the turning of a key in the keyhole. He froze in place as if being stupefied, wishing in despair that there was a hole in the ground in which he could hide.

The man yelled the moment he stepped in the room, "Lex?!"

Then there were footsteps and pulling, "You get the fuck up!"

Lex Luthor jolted awake, his heart thumping. The bedside electric clock read eight o'clock.

Whether on holiday or after a late night, he would always wake up at eight like clockwork. That was caused by the wake-up time Luthor Sr. set for him. Because staying in bed after the alarm clock has went off was absolutely forbidden…

"Gah! Alright!" Luthor answered. He slapped his forehead and jumped out of bed, but couldn't help gasping at the pain in his muscles. His bed was of excellent ergonomic designs, why did he feel even wearier than having slept in a camp-cot?

The young man mumbled discontentedly, zigzagging towards the bathroom barefoot. His reddish gold hair was sticking haywire on his head, like a bunch of roughed-up braids. The thick carpet in the bedroom was a bit chilly, but the marble floor tiles in the master bedroom were dry and comfortable from the floor heating. He spread his toes while washing, like some small feline. Then he draped a warm wet towel on his head to smooth down his naughty hair, and pulled his eyelids to check his bloodshot eyes. No doubt it was a night full of nightmares again. He would need some eye-drops, Luthor thought. What was he doing in the dream?

He leaned over the cold marble counter, studying his face in the mirror. Under the warm yellow light, his pupils contracted to a tiny black dot, and his iris turned aqua. He had that pale skin of the Germanics, and inherited his father's high nose and deep eye sockets. Perhaps his mouth was like mother's. He wouldn't have known. Luthor lifted his eyebrows, showing a compassionate look. Water dripped from the towel and wetted his nightgown collar. He put away that puppy-like innocence and soon started to mutter resentfully.

Patience! Patience! Humbert Humbert![2]

Luthor blinked and wiped off the drops of water on his face, showing off an elegant but fairly persuasive smile. He was an educated upper-class, and he could use this smile to open any door in the world. Yes, he looked a lot more like his father this way. A shrewd businessman with many faces, a fugitive who's never been sentenced, an evil tyrant that he despised.

Father smiled at him through his eyes.

He rolled his eyes at his reflection. The towel covered his hair. He looked like a baldhead.

When Luthor started picking and choosing in his closet as large as tow basketball courts, he'd already forgotten all about the nightmare. His wardrobe could cure anyone's OCD: all the items were not only neatly pressed and placed orderly, they were also sorted out and categorized by color and style, which made his wardrobe look like a full Pantone color chart.[3]

He couldn't remember much from the days in East Germany. After all, he was only six when Luthor Sr. took him and escaped in a flurry. But it wasn't really that he couldn't remember. Like those rare kids born with excellent memory, he was troubled by his vivid retentions. The darkness of his youngest days was an epitome of his first 16 years of life. He deliberately forced himself to forget. But even 15 years after his father's death, the fear would still come to him like clumps of white mold floating on stale tea, trickling down every time he raised the glass, and cause that not life-threatening yet revolting discomfort.

But he still remember that white wall.

That ordinary white wall, painted with poor plaster that would chip off whenever you touched it. The room wasn't decorated, so naturally the wall was empty as well. Not to mention that the price of accessories was high as hell. Father could get a thousand Marks a month, and a painting could cost a hundred. Luthor Sr. had no intention of building a warm and welcoming home. Luthor was certain that the reason he remembered the wall so clearly was that there was nothing else in the house besides essential furniture to distract him. Or, he was genuinely hoping that something would climb out of it, some thing, a bird or whatever else. He wasn't allowed to go outside, and under the mass secret execution of believers by the Stasi[4], he didn't know about Jesus Christ either. He didn't care what kind of savior that thing was, as long as it was something that could save him. But no "thing" came to save him.

Father would beat him up for just accidentally breaking a plate, or yell at him for babbling baby talk. He would press him against that white wall and smack him with a broomstick. Father knew where to hit that would hurt the most and spare the major organs. He would get smeared all over by white plaster, his tears falling on the wall like scattered raindrops on pebbles. Lex Luthor learned the meaning of "forbidden" earlier than his peers. In other words, "forbidden" was the only German word he recalled for a long while. It was forbidden to go the bathroom after light out. It was forbidden to lie on the couch for too long. It was forbidden to stay in bed after the alarm clock had gone off. It was forbidden to loiter around. It was forbidden to talk too loud, talk back, cry, or show anger. It was specifically forbidden to stand in front of the window.

A city within the city. A cage within the cage.

He couldn't stand in front of the window because he was a disgraced bastard. After the downfall of the Nazis, Luthor Sr. became a sentinel on the wall through the "reformation" of the SED. As one of the last generation cultivated in Nazi poison, he had always been the backbone of the underground resurgence organization after Germany's defeat. He was cunning, intelligent, born with a cold heart, and would do anything to achieve his aims. It wasn't until the GDR started building the wall that Luthor Sr. began to accept the fact that there would never be a resurgence. To keep himself alive he "turned over a new leaf", and went to the "reformation camp" twice a week for reeducation like a snake shedding its skin. Luthor's mother, a woman from East Germany whose name he still didn't know, conceived him through a one-night-stand, and died of complications after his birth. The mental tortures had made Luthor Sr.'s crafty and adaptable way of life. But the unexpected birth of Lex Luthor didn't soften his cruel heart. The child couldn't be naturalized as the mother's identity was unclear, and Luthor Sr. deemed that he was a burden, forcing him to be even more discreet when dealing with affairs. That rage fed the demon, and it made the child the only tool that he could lash out his frustration upon.

At the end of 1988, riots and insurrections were rising up like wild weed that could never be burned down. Bloody suppressions were happening every few days. After ignorantly hiding in fear for five years, Lex Luthor finally gained the courage to lean over the window pane on a holiday, and peer outside from the shadows where the sun couldn't reach. He could see the declining regime's guard of honor striding through the streets, playing a bustling tone of praise that sounded ominously like a death bell. Father was standing with his back to him in the crowd, waving the flowers in his hand like a wind-up robot. The image was branded in his mind, even though he'd only begun to understand its meaning a decade later after putting the pieces together– the dictatorship of the Nazis, the autocracy of the SED, the tyranny of father. And the childhood he'd lost before it even began.

When Germany finally united, and people were stepping over the broken rubbles and embracing each other in tears amid a ruin of concrete, he was dragged on a ship to the other side of the Atlantic by his father as if they were escaping for dear life. Then he leaned over a round porthole, trying to read a tattered German picture book. Luthor Sr. had already shed another layer of skin and begun to mingle with those so-called "self-starters".

Before they disembarked, father dragged him out of his upper bunk, went through his bag and teared up his German picture book, throwing the pieces into the sea. From then on there was another item on the forbidden list. It was forbidden to speak Germany. It was forbidden to say that you're from German. He'd never had the identity of an East German, and East Germany has been erased from existence like the ancient Atlantis swallowed by a rift. From then on he wasn't an East German, nor a German. He was an American. And Americans had their own way of dealing with heroes.

[1] _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_. Concerning the Queen of Hearts, Lewis Carroll explained, "I pictured to myself the Queen of Hearts as a sort of embodiment of ungovernable passion – a blind and aimless Fury."

[2] _Lolita_ by Vladimir Nabokov

[3] Pantone Inc. is a company best known for its Pantone Matching System (PMS), a proprietary color space used in a variety of industries, primarily printing, though sometimes in the manufacture of colored paint, fabric, and plastics.

[4] Stasi, The Ministry for State Security of the German Democratic Republic. It was considered as one of the most effective intelligence agencies of the Cold War.


	4. Chapter 4

"The mysterious phantom Clark Kent has finally honored us with his presence at Daily Planet."

White moved over like a tiger spotting a lone juicy gazelle as soon as the reporter put down his bag and sat down in his seat.

"I gave you the story, Perry."

"Two days overdue!" White ridiculed, poking Kent's white shirt with the tip of his ball pen. "Dear Amazon customer service, the package didn't arrive on the day. Therefore I request a refund."

"I've got to think about how to write it, you know. Writer's block…"

"Are you writing a primary school essay? Kent the six-grader? It was Lex Luthor! Exclusive interview, one two three! Bam! Just write whatever he said."

"I can't" Kent's face sagged. "I'm a journalist. I need to think of an angle…"

"But your angle is dull and stale! Kent the great writer, after spending an afternoon with Lex Luthor, and I quote, 'After my ink had run out, he kindly gave me a latest-edition tablet, and taught me how to use it himself.' As if people don't already know this Luthor is a philanthropist?"

Before Kent could retort, the editor-in-chief continued, completely ignoring Kent's struggle, "Again quoting, 'I couldn't refuse his warm welcome. However, this charming young CEO has overflowing intelligence on sports as well…' I'm sorry." He snapped his fingers angrily, and the pen flew out of his hand, "but where is the new tech we agreed on?"

The butler brought him breakfast and morning papers on a trolley. The young billionaire was wearing a white sweatshirt and loose dotted cotton pants, holding Kent's pen in his teeth and meditating on a lounge. He caught a glimpse of his headshot on the front page and finally gave a satisfied smile. He snatched away the Daily Planet beside the breakfast tray and raced through the lines.

It took him two days to come up with this! Hah! Did this Clark Kent from Kansas plant corn at this pace as well?

"As a supporter of avant-garde art, Lex revealed that he had Yayoi Kusama's installations in his garden.[1] He would always favor those controversial artists and advocate some sensitive topics, which made him popular among the younger generation, but left the conservatives quite helpless. He has long developed a liking for novel and spectacular gadgets, and owns over a dozen patents. Lex Luthor is a well-educated man, as he has emphasized. 'First a man of letters, then an inventor, a businessman comes last.' He explained, 'When you own all the titles above, even if you hadn't inherited the huge wealth of LexCorp, it would be inevitable to become a businessman.'"

"However, this charming young CEO has overflowing intelligence on sports as well. He only needed to beckon casually, for suddenly torrents of employees joined us, all volunteering to participate in our friendly match. Soon the court was surrounded. This tech prodigy was obviously popular amongst his peers. But come to think of it, I've got some natural talent on basketball myself…"

Hah! Natural talent! This Mr. Kent, always talking about irrelevant things to avoid the main subject! Luthor jumped up and began pacing, his fingers pinching the papers were trembling.

"I made the defining shot near the end of the game, which was quite embarrassing indeed. It didn't seem smart at all to score a three-pointer right above the head of LexCorp's CEO, but Mr. Luthor didn't seem angry at the slightest. He laughed and gave me a sweaty hug. His unruffled and generous manner is the talisman of LexCorp's incredible achievements today."

Quite embarrassing? This Mr. Kent had used everything up his sleeve to win! Hmm! He nearly flew up in the air to take a dunk – if he could fly in the full glare of so many people. Lex Luthor gave Clark Kent an opportunity to fight back, and this gentleman took it unsparingly after a slight hesitation. Fool! Fool! So green and aggressive, he was far from a saint!

"But Mr. Luthor didn't seem angry at the slightest." Not showing rage and upset… Is his acting truly as good as Kent has written? Unruffled and generous manner… Hah! Of course he cared, it's because he was already standing high enough. Luthor pondered, studying the pen in his hand: or was it that Kent has already noticed something but had to cover it up with lies? See, that's the shortcoming of being under a human disguise! You cannot do as you wish! What else could the Daily Planet's reporter write other than coming up with this piece of crap? He needed to take advantage of that, Luthor made a mental note to himself.

Or perhaps Kent felt his anger but didn't brood over it… So now he ended up needing this idiotic reporter's pity?

Clark Kent's smile was as sincere as a child. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, inattentively exposing solid muscles. His black hair was dampened by sweat, and those sparking blue eyes were like a pool of steaming hot spring.

"You are already pretty impressive!" He shouted.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

The reporter gave Luthor a hand to help him up, but the latter flinched a little as if trying to avoid physical contact. The entrepreneur, biting his lips, was slightly hesitant, yet he quickly opened his arms, "Come on big boy, give me a hug." His hands were shaking and he was nearly tongue-tied.

Kent didn't refuse. So the defeated young genius embraced the reporter amid thunder-like applause, as if they were performing some bizarre ritual. Luthor tightened his lips. He was fully drowned in this hug like a speck of dust floating in space. His thin arms almost couldn't surround Kent's thick chest, so he ended up lowering them to hold his waist. Unexpectedly, the reporter's hug was warm and dry, almost as if his internal heat has evaporated the sweat in a matter of seconds! Or it wasn't that unexpected… Luthor's head was roaring and booming, the vein in his neck was throbbing so fiercely that it was close to exploding… He was trembling violently… And his heart… He tried his best to steady his heartbeat and hear Kent's… But he couldn't… He's not Superman with super-hearing… And Superman…

Ahh, how he desperately wish to tear down this mask! To paint the white rose red. It was a wolf wearing the skin of a sheep, possessing armed power that no man could control – forcing the trembling humans to rely upon a non-human heart that will not turn wicked. But what other choice did humankind have? Did humankind have the option to ask Superman to leave? This alien being has already shamelessly rooted here. That worship for Superman was not an expectation of hope, but fear!

Off with his head! The Queen of Hearts ordered.

Luthor squeezed the pen in his hand and smiled coldly. One on one on the court, Lex Luthor, son of human versus Clark Kent as human! A fair fight between men – what sarcasm! This Clark Kent was like someone covered in honey poking a hornets' nest, while thinking himself well-protected by a full-body armor. He wrote piles of compliment and praise, but didn't mention a word of the green stone or Superman, as if he was hoping that Luthor would let him off easy for that. Well, he couldn't be more wrong.

Luthor threw the paper back onto the table, and put the pen back in his mouth. Then, with the platter in his hands, he jumped onto the bed and grabbed his phone. He found himself a comfortable position to lie down, and then dialed the number he had long since memorized.

He didn't like text messages. He liked hearing "his" voice.

Kent's phone rang, unknown number. White was talking with someone not far away. The earlier lecture left him temporarily quite unmotivated, so he picked up the phone and genuinely hoped that it wasn't some boring sales scam.

"Clark Kent."

"Good morning, Jesus Christ Superstar." It was the voice of Lex Luthor.

The reporter looked up in panic to glance at White, but unluckily caught his eye. So he stood up and walked towards the resting area while talking, "How come you're calling my cell." Realizing the displeasure in his tone, he hurriedly added, "Sorry, I didn't mean you couldn't call my cell… Mr. Luthor." He wouldn't doubt that Luthor had remembered that string of numbers back when he was entering them in the tablet.

Or had Luthor known from the beginning?

"You didn't write the alien stone." Luthor went straight to the subject, his cutlery clinking together.

"I think I have the right to decide what to write and what not to." The reporter switched the phone into his other hand. He could hear Luthor spreading butter on his bread with a knife, and then a pop from the jam jar opening.

"Liar." Luthor took a bite of the bread.

The reporter frowned. "We both know that I couldn't write about the Kryptonite. That would raise chaos in the criminal world."

"Chaos for human, or for Superman?"

"They pretty much complement each other." The reporter held the phone between his head and shoulder, and threw two quarters into the vending machine.

"Do they?" Luthor responded lightly.

The conversation paused as the young man accidentally jabbed his poached egg. Kent heard him dropping the phone and slurping the yolk. He couldn't tell whether it was intended for the sucking sound was unnecessarily loud and erotic. Did he do that all the time? Forcing others to eat candies and licking his own fingers…

"So you're on his side then?" Luthor wiped his hands on the napkin.

"What?" Kent raised his coffee in a paper cup.

"Superman's side. You're on Superman's side."

"There are no sides in this matter."

"You're on his side."

"Mr. Luthor, I'm only a news reporter." Kent took a sip of his coffee and reminded him.

"Every news reporter has his own position. Even gods have to take a stand."

"Luthor…"

But Luthor interrupted him, "You choose to stand on his side, rather than letting the humans learn the truth. Indeed the truth will bring about good outcomes and bad ones, but that doesn't mean that truth shall not be heard because there are bad consequences. Who gave you that right? Are you thinking in the position of humans? I doubt…"

"Lex, if some criminal come to steal the stone, your life will be in danger."

"I was being generous, not lusting for trifling profit. And you chose to let me continue my control over the Kryptonite, how thoughtful!"

"I didn't. I was actually…" The reporter raised his voice. He had wanted to say something, but swallowed the rest of the words.

Luthor stayed silent for a second, and then exclaimed out of nowhere, "Who said you could call me Lex?"

Good god! He's such a moody and unpredictable person! The reporter was snapped up short and turned red in a second. Upset, he put the coffee cup on the table and sat down in a sofa chair. He heard Luthor slurping something again, so he asked crossly, "What are you eating now, Mr. Luthor?"

"Grape, my superstar." Luthor replied in a pleasant tone, and added unnecessarily, "Green grapes, picked from Metropolis's local farms, I believe."

Kent was just about to say something when White's voice suddenly came from behind him. He hastily stood up again in surprise.

"Who are you talking to?" White didn't sound friendly at all.

"I'm, I'm talking with Luthor…" Saying Lex Luthor's name obvious wasn't the idea. He was practically surrounded by foes on all sides. So the poor reporter hurriedly corrected, "It's my, my source from the north district. He's reporting a, a robbery." He held the phone and jabbered away.

"Another Luthor?" White asked suspiciously, crossing his arms, "How many Luthors are there in Metropolis?"

"It's Le—Lacey Luthor," the reporter stuttered, "who has nothing to do with Lex Luthor…"

"Hah, you just can't shut up when you're talking to ladies with the initials L.L., can you? Should I change my name too?"

"…" The reporter argued, "It's not anything important at all…" Only then did he realize that his phone was still on. The genius billionaire was probably happily listening in on him making a spectacle of himself, and Kent could hear him rolling on the bed laughing at the moment.

He explained to the phone in a hurry, "I'll, I'll talk to you later."

"So!" Luthor has finally put a stop to his laughter. Kent couldn't tell from his voice whether he was genuinely amused or already planning some wicked scheme. "This not-important-at-all Lacey Luthor, we need to come up with something to make her important, don't we?"

"I often ask myself why I haven't fired you yet." Whiter muttered, but still patted Kent on the shoulder sparingly. "Seriously, you can't be so undisciplined just because we get along well."

The reporter slipped his phone back in his pocket. He didn't rush to hang up, neither did Luthor. So as he followed White back towards the working area, Luthor started speaking again, as if he knew that Kent could hear him without putting the phone to his ear.

"Don't worry, Mr. Superstar. If he fires you, I'll fire him." The young man said roguishly.

[1] Yayoi Kusama is a Japanese artist and writer. Throughout her career, she has thematic interest in psychedelic colors, repetition and pattern. Trademark of her work, polka dots, which told the story of "infinity nets," as she called them, were taken directly from her hallucinations. Kusama's work is based in conceptual art and shows some attributes of feminism, minimalism, surrealism, Art Brut, pop art, and abstract expressionism, and is infused with autobiographical, psychological, and sexual content.


	5. Chapter 5

Do not assume that god is insensitive in the matter of appreciating beauty. God just happens to have a persisting preference for all beautiful things, just like the devil does not always lie secret in the dark of night, or grief does not always stand for pain. When god does something out of line, eight or nine chances in ten are caused by his bigotry of believing in himself to be right. After all, the idea of "unity of heaven and men" is nothing but a myth.

When this god was born, his world was already dragging out its remaining years like a candle in a draft. He never had the luxury to enjoy its flourishing prosperity of billions of years, nor ever truly understood his own civilization. He was like the late-comer at the feast of gods, only to find a mess of littered shambles all over the floor. While still in his cradle, he had already roamed through the vastness of the galaxies, absorbing the final energy emitted by the collapsing planet. He came cloaked with light and fire of the old world, and left a distant fleeting glimpse of wonder that shone above Bethlehem. [1]

This god fell from the sky, erased his name and identity, wore no panoply of flamboyance, and hid in plain sight. The stars raced across the midnight canopy, and 30 years later, kin against kin, he raced to the sky. A macabre war all but destroyed downtown Metropolis in an instant.

Clark Kent - no, we should call him Superman at this moment – like all human who need to walk their dog after work, has been enjoying his own time for a stroll while helping humans with some minor affairs for the last couple of months.

At the moment he slowly lifted his feet off the ground and floated towards the sky. The morning was still young and he didn't want to cause any unnecessary kerfuffle. Only when the lights of Metropolis has shrunk to the size of his hand did he turn and accelerate.

Within a few seconds, he has risen through the black clouds, his red cape under full sail and stretched taunt. The rising sun shown only a quarter of its face right in front of him, which showered the clouds in a boiling pleasing color. The heat from the sunlight was gradually going up, but he was not bothered at the slightest. Instead, he allowed it to seep into his skin as if gulping down elixir.

Soon he ascended to the height of windless temple, where silence reigned over everything.

He temporarily switched off his super-hearing.

The gigantic blue planet slowly spun in front of him in a tranquilizing posture. Satellites and debris trapped by gravity were like exotic paper birds from an alien territory, too fragile to bear even the tenderest touch. The ocean of stars was vast and endless like a sea of dazzling florals. He could see it all clearer than anyone, but did not feel surprised at all, nor did he reveal any awe humans would feel for the miracle of creation when they enter space. The flickering light beneath his feet became even darker than the stars above. And on the surface of the astronomical orb which was about to welcome another dawn, streams of light gilded over the planet like melted gold.

He close his eyes. The gravity of this planet was light as a feather to him. He fathomed the slight tremors between different forces of gravity, and easily maintained a placid position of repose.

This eccentric deity, drifted by all alone in this world with no roots or anchor, only for his body and soul was forged from the earth of another planet. The years of his prime could outlive a sea turtle, and even when his body has reduced to dust, his spirit would remain immortal through a vicissitude of time and space. If his homeland hadn't collapsed into a million speckles of stardust and was nowhere to be found, he would dedicate his whole life only to cup a handful of soil from his home-world. But now, this blue planet was his only sanctuary. He was like an ascetic, bowing his head with every step, seeking to build a bridge with his nonpareil tender fondness.

Jesus Christ. Yet he was the tiger raised by humans, the cuckoo nurtured by warblers, the twice-born Dionysus, finishing his gestation on Zeus's thigh. [2]

He opened his eyes nearly a quarter later, his muscles hot from their exposure to the sunlight. So he clenched up his fist and silently accelerated forward. Light flashed by, and he has stepped from day into night, crossing over half the planet without a sweat, leaving the faint lights far behind. He used to follow the icebreakers treading through the icy polar regions, and smoke on the deck with his peers wrapped in thick fur coats, without a sign of frostbite on his fingertips, his breathes slow and with ease. If he was willing, he could run around naked on the icecaps, or walk through a wall of fire. During the long nighttime, humans would point up to the sky and share tales of deities living above the green wall with a tone of mystery. He would listen quietly, knowing that there were no walls above the atmosphere, nor palaces. For those so-called palaces of gods were forever unreachable to humans like a mirage. Yet he could picture the figure of this invisible giant in his mind, its colossal figure like a racing formless phantom, leaving behind one green footprint after another in his wake. At the moment he lifted the corner of his mouth and smiled, chasing the dancing polar auroras into the perpetual night, then quickly outrunning the darkness, leaving it far behind.

Superman was a romantic. He called this "a morning run".

Thirty minutes later he returned to Metropolis, in the meanwhile preventing a couple of small disasters on the other side of the globe. He gazed contently at this huge city still bathed in the smoky grey light of a serene dawn. The street lights were still lit. He descended a little. The bright orange neon billboard sitting on the top of LexCorp, the tallest skyscraper in Metropolis to date, caught his eye. He circled it. The middle and lower floors of the building were business offices, and the top floors were contracted by a fancy hotel under LexCorp.

He didn't mean to pry, but who could expect that the young CEO happened to stay the night in the presidential suite of the hotel, instead of going back to his residence? Superman found him when he was gliding for a second lap around the building.

The young entrepreneur huddled up on the king-sized bed in a set of pale blue pajamas, one pillow under his head and one in his arms. He was trapped in some sort of nightmare, and muttering in a language that Superman wasn't familiar with as if sleep-talking. Though there was a wall of glass, thick shaded curtains, and layers of beddings between them, Superman could still clearly see that his pajamas was decorated with gold polka dots. He paused outside the window for a while, holding his arms. He could hear the young man's irregular breathing, and that seemed to make his red cape freeze in mid-air.

Peeper. He accused himself.

So he floated up again. Perhaps he needed another five minutes of running for punishment.

[1] The Star by Arthur Clarke. "There can be no reasonable doubt: the ancient mystery is solved at last. Yet, oh God, there were so many stars you could have used. What was the need to give these people to the fire, that the symbol of their passing might shine above Bethlehem?"

[2]The myth that Dionysus was the son of Zeus and Semele, a mortal. Hera discovered the affair while Semele was pregnant. She went under disguise and tricked Semele into demanding to see Zeus's true form. Zeus did so under Semele's insistence and Semele was burned from seeing his true form. Zeus rescued the unborn Dionysus by sewing him into his thigh. A few months later, Dionysus was born as Zeus released the now-fully-grown baby from his thigh.


End file.
